


something fragile coming soon

by blanchtt



Category: Master of None (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-15
Updated: 2018-08-15
Packaged: 2019-06-27 22:56:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15695040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blanchtt/pseuds/blanchtt
Summary: Modena is hot and dry and sunny, different from New York City in almost every way.[In which Mindy Kaling, a hapless futch lesbian, replaces Aziz Ansari in my mind's eye as Dev.]





	something fragile coming soon

 

 

 

 

 

Modena is hot and dry and sunny, different from New York City in almost every way.

 

Francesca sits at a table in the front of the store, watching, and Dev focuses her attention on the pasta— _don’t fuck up, don’t fuck up._ It’s pretty easy not to though, if she puts pretty girls out of her mind. She’s not that great, but still leaps and bounds better than when she got here.

 

“Did you ever find your phone?” Francesca asks, elbow on the table and chin propped on her fist, and Dev looks up, makes a noise, in retrospect a probably highly unflattering one.

 

“Nah. It’s gone for good.”

 

“And on your birthday,” Francesca says disbelievingly. “You’re very unlucky, you know?”

 

Dev looks up, smiles and fucks up the ravioli she's working on because of it.

 

“Tell me about it.”

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

After three months her budget starts to get slimmer and her ravioli is looking pretty damn good, and it all means it’s time to go home soon.

 

“I’ll come visit,” Francesca says, the two of them hugging in the middle of the shop, and Mario is tugging on her shirt, asking for a hug too, and Dev lets go, leans down to hug Mario and Nonna too as Francesca adds, “Maybe I’ll even open my own pasta shop.”

 

“Uh, great idea, except you barely speak English,” Dev jokes, because she is terrible at Italian and Francesca is basically bilingual. “So, my shop would crush yours.”

 

It gets a raised brow from Francesca, crossed arms, but it’s all in jest because she’s trying not to smile, too.

 

“Watch out. I’ll take you up on that.”

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

It takes a dozen terrible dates before she realizes maybe she should put dating on hold. It doesn’t hurt that eating at New York City’s best restaurants is taking a heavy toll on her wallet.

 

She’s got a job, Dev thinks to herself, rolling out a thin sheet of dough on her countertop. She’s got friends. An apartment. Pasta. She should be content with that.

 

 _Telling_ herself that is vastly different from _believing_ it, though.

 

Dev pounds the pasta sheet a little flatter than it needs to be, ignores the ding of her phone receiving a text. At least for now.

 

It’s eleven-thirty by the time the spaghetti is done, laid out in a fancy circle a plate with the sauce in the middle because presentation matters. Dev takes it, grabs a fork, and sits on the couch, slips her phone out of her pocket and swipes it open.

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

The speed at which things change in her life should hardly surprise her by now.

 

Three days ago she’d been moping in sweatpants, eating pasta alone, and tonight Francesca is leaning against the counter next to her in the kitchen of Jeff’s sprawling penthouse apartment, fucking _John Legend_ playing I Can’t Help It on the grand piano like it’s no big deal.

 

Dev almost wants to pinch herself.

 

They slip out onto the rooftop as people disperse, moving onto drinks and smoking, meander around looking for a spot to talk and finally take a place at the ledge, looking out at the skyline. It’s moments like this, Dev knows, that make all the scrimping and saving, all the Go-Gurt commercials and movie rejections, worth it.

 

Francesca slips the empty vape pen into her purse, sighs. “It’s done.”

 

“Bummer.”

 

Francesca makes an agreeable noise, and silence settles over them until she speaks up.

 

“I missed you.”

 

It’s casual, and Dev almost wonders if she’s the only one who feels the weight of it hang between them. She looks sideways, catches Francesca’s eye and finally shrugs.

 

“Eh, I’ve got my friends here.” But she’s quick to laugh at Francesca’s expression, hold out a hand in a don’t _shoot expression_ and adding, “Just kidding. I missed you, too.”

 

So it’s probably karma that after a few more drinks, a taxi ride, and a hug goodbye, that Dev pulls out her phone in the backseat of the taxi, swipes it open to a text message from Francesca— _Thanks for a lovely evening. I’m jealous of the lucky pillow that gets to hold your beautiful face tonight_ —and a kissy face emoji.

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

Life crawls on—she shoots more episodes of Clash of the Cupcakes, _finally_ watches Death Castle, quits Clash of the Cupcakes, pitches Best Food Friends to Jeff, delete’s Priya’s number from her phone, and goes out with Denise for drinks.

 

“I like her,” Dev admits, and it’s a huge weight off her shoulders. As much as she doesn’t want to admit it out loud, because that makes it real, Francesca’s engagement hurts.

 

Of course, the relief's only temporary. She’s not quite sure why she thought Denise would give her decent advice, especially after the last time this _exact_ same thing happened. Does she ever learn? Apparently not.

 

“Just because there’s a goalie doesn’t mean you can’t score,” Denise says succinctly as they sit at the wine bar together, and Dev wrinkles her nose.

 

“Yeah, that doesn’t sound shady at all.”

 

Denise shrugs loosely.

 

“Hey, girl. More room on the low road for me.”

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

The low road _calls_ to her, damn it.

 

Dev wakes up to her phone vibrating, rubs sleep from her eyes and swipes it open in the dark room.

 

“Blizzard warning,” she explains, and Francesca’s mouth turns down into a moue of worry.

 

“Should I leave?”

 

“I doubt there are any cabs working.” Dev sits up, tosses off the blanket she's got over her legs with a glance at the movie. They’ve missed a lot of it, it would seem. “You’re totally free to stay here if you want because, uh. Not sure if you have them in Italy, but New York blizzards are kind of serious.”

 

It gets a laugh out of Francesca, and she texts something to Pino, probably, slips her phone back into her pocket and stands, stretching, arms over her head.

 

“Dinner?” she suggests, and Dev grins.

 

 _Don’t fuck up, don’t fuck up_ , she thinks, that old mantra back again as Francesca helps her get together a dinner salad. They eat on the couch, skip back to the beginning of the movie chapter before they fell asleep, and promptly miss the rest of it all over again.

 

“Dev’s actually short for Devaradhana,” Dev explains. “But white people see a long-ass name with a bunch of unfamiliar letters and freak out. So, Dev.”

 

“Fuck the man,” Francesca says, fist raised in solidarity, and takes a bite of her salad with her free hand. “Does it mean anything?”

 

“Worship of the gods. Don’t know what they were thinking naming me that. Does Francesca mean anything?”

 

“Free one.”

 

Their conversation flows easily like it always has, and then, just like Denise said, _the low road_. She finds herself on it despite _all_ her best intentions.

 

Francesca settles into her bed next to her and it’s all fine by her because, Dev rationalizes, because Francesca is the one to huddle closer, their foreheads touching.

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

She’s an adult. They’re adults. They’re both adults.

 

It makes it a little more okay, Dev thinks, the next time that Francesca is over, that they start to drink in her apartment, that Francesca puts on a song, that they begin to dance, Francesca’s head on her shoulder.

 

She knows enough Italian to know that this entire idea is dumpster fire of a bad one, and she is not a regular, dumbass moth, which might be excusable under other circumstances—she’s a fucking kamikaze moth headed right towards it, because whatever Francesca is, whatever she is to Francesca, this is different than flirting.

 

What about tomorrow? What will they be?

 

Dev shoves that thought to the back of her mind, mirrors Francesca, and lets their lips meet.

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

She gives Francesca space, but still. Damn.

 

Dev goes two days without a text, her flight date coming up, and stupidly makes a list.

 

(Didn’t she learn from Rachel, she thinks, even as she’s writing on her pad of paper, and the answer is, as always, apparently not.)

 

1.) She has a fiancé

2.) She used you as an escape

3.) She used you

4.) She’s evil

5.) She doesn’t speak English well*

 

*actually kind of cute

 

 

She crosses out numbers two through four, the bitterness rising, peaking, and washing away just as quickly, because she just can’t be mad at Francesca and she _knew_ she was playing with fire.

 

1.) She’s magical

2.) She made you laugh

3.) She made you feel something

4.) She’s the most beautiful

5.) She makes pasta

6.) Everything is fun with her

 

Dev hesitates on number seven, the thought lingering— _she doesn’t want you_.

 

She doesn’t write it down, because that brings the reality into existence and whatever Francesca is doing now must not be easy, for anyone involved.

 

Instead, she gathers both lists, crumples them up, tosses them in the trash, and goes to bed.

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

She’s more than a little shocked to get ready Tuesday morning—nursing a broken heart because she hasn’t gotten a single text goodbye and Francesca’s departure time has come and gone—to throw on a coat on her way to meet Arnold and open the door and find Francesca waiting there for her, smiling.

 

“No way,” Dev breathes, and Francesca gets a little teary at that, and before Dev knows its they’re hugging, flush and hard in a way they never have before.

 

“There is a lot to see in New York,” Francesca says when she finally pulls away, though she doesn’t break their touch, hand lingering on Dev’s forearm. “And if you’d like, I want you to show me all of it.”

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

They go out for tapas, and Dev sits and listens to what Francesca wants to tell her of what passed between her and Pino.

 

And then that is behind them, and they go home, and the high road, as torturous as it was, was the right decision, because Francesca slips off her coat and then her blouse, and Dev lets her hands and lips touch in a way she hasn’t before, and it’s _right_.

 

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

 

It wasn’t an easy decision, Dev knows. Hell, hers wasn’t either. Not that it’s comparable to ditching your fiancé, your family, and everything you’ve ever known, moving to a new country, and deciding to open up your own restaurant.

 

But still.

 

“Nine out of ten restaurants end in failure in the first year,” Denise says, always the ray of sunshine, but Francesca only beams, takes a sip of her wine as they all eat together, and leans against her shoulder.

 

“Not this one,” Francesca says, that undeniable streak of confidence shining through.

 

“Don’t listen to her, she gives shit advice,” Dev explains, and Denise throws up her hands as a peace offering. "There’s no overhead. All done through Postmates and shit."

  

“Are you going to have oysters?” Arnold asks, oblivious, and Francesca launches into the different plates they’ll offer.

 

A year ago roughly, sitting across from Francesca in the same situation, she’d been without a girlfriend, without a phone, and almost without a birthday dinner. She's rolled with it all her life, no matter what _it_ has turned out to be—dinner parties, random flights, hosting shows, and putting her heart on the line.

 

And moving forward it'll be a little easier, Dev knows as her hand seeks Francesca's under the table, twining their fingers together, with Francesca besides her.

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
